


Knock On Wood

by followsrabbit



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Simon gets jealous.</p><p>Sometimes, Baz thinks his boyfriend is a bloody moron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock On Wood

Simon doesn’t so much walk through the door, as open it, find himself promptly pulled over his own threshold, and slammed back against its lock. His wings fold crinkled, and he would thank Crowley that they’re too thick to splinter if not for blunt surprise and the sudden pressure of Baz’s jaw against his.

(Surprise doesn’t stop him from nodding his chin back against Baz’s sharp lines and cool skin.)

He doesn’t even have the chance to spit out a hello. Not that greetings are his top priority at the moment – not when his boyfriend tastes like pumpkin spice, intention, and chocolate. Baz’s palms stretch to trap him in place, and Simon has always, always fallen for his traps. 

(Even when it was stupid of him.) Baz groans into his mouth. (He doesn’t feel stupid now.)

Simon feels bloody perfect as he licks the leftover coffee from Baz’s lower lip, tugging its curl between his teeth.  He thinks this is one of those fantasies he never realized until last Christmas, but must have suppressed for months. Years. Biting away Baz’s smirks and sneers.

A fantasy wouldn’t do the reality much justice; if he’d had to imagine what Baz would taste like, he would have guessed something like his magic.   More fire, less candied coffee.

“Long week?” he thinks he’s managed to comb the last remnant of Starbucks from Baz’s tongue, but decides to double-check anyhow. 

“Fucking--” Baz’s mouth maps a constellation of Simon’s freckles “—family--” vampire or not, he can still make Simon’s skin feel like it’s burning “—vacation.”  Gradually, Baz’s grip drifts down around Simon’s hips, just beneath the hem of his t-shirt, and clenches.  Hard.

(He still doesn’t know what to wear now, without his Watford uniform.  Without Watford.  Denim and t-shirts seemed a safe place to start – easy to pick out, easy to size, easy to match.  Easy for Baz to take off.)

Baz’s mouth sculpts a murmur against the bulge of his Adam’s apple: “Never again.” 

Simon knows that Baz can feel the growl climbing his throat.  “I don’t think your father’s planning on more than the one fiftieth birthday.”

Every bit of Baz is pulling every bit of Simon against him, as though his father is liable to jump from the woodwork at any given moment with another invitation to another  week-long Swiss birthday celebration. “Don’t jinx it, Snow. He’s quite disappointed in my life of sodomy and Starbucks addictions.  My dear father might just decide to turn fifty every year.”

Simon presses a kiss to Baz’s temple to hide the pit that always twists in his stomach at any reminder that Baz’s family expects more for him than a Normal boyfriend. Than half of the Insidious Humdrum, than formerly power-sucking and currently powerless.  Than wings and a tail.  If he overthinks it, he’ll begin to sympathize with them.

But Simon likes the incongruous softness of Baz’s sharp cheekbones against his throat too much to dwell on it.

“Knock on wood?” (A year ago, he’d have had to be careful of the magic in those words.)  (A year ago, he wouldn’t have been groping his once-nemesis, now, would he.)

He doesn’t have to see Baz’s smirk to feel it.

* * *

They don’t make it to Simon’s room.

They don’t make it to the living room couch either.

(If Penny weren’t spending her every waking minute at the library lately, Simon would probably worry more about this.)

But Baz’s hands are everywhere, and his mouth is everywhere else, and the carpet – brightly colored; from Mrs. Bunce – rolls beneath Simon’s back a minute later in a tumble of tangled limbs. Baz has his wrists pinned between the carpet’s fringe and the wood floor, and his expression is all arched eyebrows and wicked edges.

Simon arches against him.  Tries to figure out this game.  For all the time they’ve spent horizontal, it’s usually him hanging over Baz, prodding him deeper and deeper into whatever surface they choose. He likes the control -- he’s lost it everywhere else – but _this_ …  Baz loosens his grip to twine his fingers with Simon’s, knotting ethereal white with sturdy gold.  Well, he likes this too.

“Not too unhygienic for you?” he copies Baz’s hiked eyebrow, doubts he manages the same haughtiness.

“I shared a room with you for eight years, Snow.” Pale lips dart against the mole highest on his chest.  “You’ve utterly botched my standards of cleanliness.”  But he still finagles his wand out to cast **“clean as a whistle”** on the floor. 

(Simon told him to do that – to keep using magic, not to coddle him. “Never have, Snow,” Baz had replied with an affectionate sneer.) (Helps him adjust. Doesn’t help the hole that opens in him every time Penny or Baz spell his wings invisible, that will always miss the endless magic that used to brew in him.)

Simon tightens his hold on Baz’s hands, and massages the pad of his thumb against the sharpness of his knuckle. “Wager your ski house is clean.”

He licks his lips, because he knows Baz won’t be able to resist tracing the movement with his eyes.  He’s right.  “Unlived in, is the word you’re looking for.”

 “Didn’t have many guests for your father’s party?”

About to catch Simon’s tongue with his own, Baz pauses at that.  Narrows his eyes. And Simon curses himself, because Baz can do a number of fucking fantastic things with his tongue, and this conversation is going to be anything but.  Should have known Baz would be too smart not to pick up on the tension in his voice, his shoulders.

“You could have come.  Crowley, I asked you to come, almost spelled you still, and packed you with my suits.”

Bronze hair – shaggy; he should probably just give in and let Penelope trim it again – shakes along with his head.  “It’s your family.”

“Yes.  And you’re my boyfriend.  The two do eventually meet.”

“I just--” Stalling, Simon tugs the sneaker he didn’t have time to kick off against the sole of Baz’s woolen sock “--wouldn’t have wanted to intrude.”

A harrumph.  “Trust me, Father already invited plenty of guests to intrude. You, I could have hoarded away in my bedroom for the week. If you’d liked.”  Baz grinds his hips against his, as if he’d have liked that very much. As if the conversing should end here.

And it should.  Maybe.  But Baz is still too fucking smart, and can read distraction in the sluggishness of Simon's lips. 

His sigh brushes Simon’s cheek cold.  “Key word: intruding.  As in I did not want them there.  As in I’m not about to bloody elope with one of the Wellbelove clones my father has picked out for me, and sire a generation of hideously pale infants.”

“There were Agatha clones?”

Their grips pulse again. “You’re not honestly worried I’d leave you for club dates and sweater sets.  Merlin, Snow, give me more credit.”  Their pulses pulse together, too. “Seducing Bunce from that American of hers would make for a far more interesting challenge.”

Simon can roll his eyes at that, so Baz’s sarcasm-straight expression can loosen into a grin.

A second eye-roll. “You like me jealous,” he guesses.

“I’d like you with syphilis. I love you jealous.”  A peck at his forehead.  “Although this is, for the record, a new height of moronic for you.”

Simon leans up to catch the insult on the tip of Baz’s tongue. “I’d like you with syphilis, too.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Simon. Vampires can’t get syphilis.”

And maybe it’s because Baz referred to himself as a vampire without a sneer of self-loathing, maybe it’s because Baz missed him so much that he was lurking in his flat to jump him the moment he walked in, or maybe Simon just missed him that much, but—

His lips don’t feel sluggish anymore.

Simon bides his time – his lips, Baz’s hands, their synched breath – before flipping Baz beneath him. 

(The next word between them is a hissed curse when, in a mess of frizzy curls and wide eyes and scrambled papers, Penelope swings the door open.)

_"Aleister Crowley."_

 


End file.
